Burnside sighed, unclasping his hands, extending them, and if not for the dark shadows of the stuffy bombproof, all would have seen that they were shaking.
“We can sit here until doomsday, gentlemen, and argue the rights and wrongs of it. But I need a volunteer.”
“Why not delay it a week?” Potter interjected. “That would give us time to train a division the way Ferrero trained his.”
“There is no more time. The Confederates have started countermining activities and could discover and destroy the tunnel at any time. It will be a matter of luck if we get through the next thirteen hours. If we wait for a week, surely they will find it,” Burnside snapped angrily, holding up his pocket watch as if to hurl it at them. “The attack goes in, in little more than thirteen hours. Meade committed to that at least, and to place Fifth and Tenth Corps into reserve support.”
That was not quite true and he knew it. Meade had insisted that the other two corps would remain under his command and that he would commit them if a breakthrough was achieved.
“Then blow the damn fort, kill several hundred Rebs, strike fear into the rest of them, and be done with it. At least it will serve that purpose,” Ferrero said dryly.
“I want this to end this damn war,” Burnside snapped. “It is the best chance we shall ever have to do it. Either we do it by surprise in this way, or we will be doomed to a long and bitter siege ahead, perhaps well into next year, and ten times as many will die over time as we will lose in this assault.”
He paused.
“I need a volunteer.”
Again he was rebuffed.
He looked down at the floor of the bunker. Planked over, it was covered with rushes and straw to absorb some of the moisture. He stared morosely at it, looking again at his pocket watch, snapping it shut as if he had made a decision.
He looked back up at the three division commanders. Ferrero of the Fourth was no longer of any concern and he wondered now as to the wisdom of appointing him to the colored troops. The man had seemed eager enough when approached and offered a second star. Had that been the only reason, and, in reality, had he held no faith in them?
The other three stared at him in silence.
He was tempted to point at Wilcox and tell him the task was his. The man was able. His regiments, though battle weary, consisted of good troops. Wilcox led from the front, having been wounded and captured at First Bull Run. Exchanged, he had gone on to command his division at Antietam. At Fredericksburg he had directly commanded all of Ninth Corps while Burnside commanded the entire army.
His name was even now being recommended for this new decoration, the Medal of Honor.
It was surprising that Wilcox returned his gaze without saying a word.
Burnside looked back at the floor and finally saw only one choice left. Reaching down he picked up several straws, the three generals at first looking at him in confusion. He turned his back to them, broke one of the straws shorter than the other two, then turned back, holding the three straws in his fist.
“Draw.”
He could think of nothing else. His mind and will were exhausted after so many long months of campaigning, of daily casualty lists, of so many letters sent to wives and parents of young comrades who had loyally stood by his side in so many fights. Unable to sleep for the last two days out of worry, and now this vicious and malicious blow dealt by Meade, he could think of nothing else to do.
“Draw a straw!” he almost shouted, holding his fist toward Wilcox.
He hoped that somehow this gesture would shame one of the three into at last relenting, and volunteering his division to lead the attack. Ferrero continued to just sit and stare with a slightly sarcastic grin, so enraging Burnside that he was ready to scream at him that he would be transferred to whichever division would lead the attack and that he expected to see him in the front line.
Wilcox, features cold, reached out and drew a straw. He turned next to Potter, who started to touch one, then hesitated and took the other. Ledlie did not move, just sat there, and Ambrose finally opened his hand and gave him the short straw.
Ledlie looked down at the straw and then, as if feeling he needed confirmation, looked to the straws held by Wilcox and Potter.
“Order of battle,” Burnside said, nodding to Ledlie. “Your division goes first. They shall move into the starting point that would have been occupied by General Ferrero’s division.”
He looked over at Ferrero.
“I expect you to establish liaison with General Ledlie and ensure his men know the jump-off position, that they are properly instructed and equipped.”
Ferrero nodded.
Ledlie was visibly shaken by the new development, letting his straw drop to the floor.
“The other two divisions are to move forward, occupying the positions originally planned for the division ahead of them. That means, Wilcox, your division goes in second; Potter, yours is third.”
No one spoke.
“See to it immediately. Report back to me at two A.M.”
They just sat there staring at him.
“Is that it, sir?” Wilcox finally offered.
It looked as if Burnside was in as deep a shock as anyone. His thoughts had drifted off to some other place. There were a dozen additional details to see to here and now, but he just sat there silently, head lowered, and simply nodded.
“That is all; I expect you men to see to the details now.”
The four generals stood and filed out.
A crowd was gathered outside the bunker. No secret lasted for long in this army. It was amazing that word of the tunnel had been kept concealed as long as it had, but now the entire corps knew of it, knew that the assault was slated for 3:30 the following morning, and that there had been some major upset in the plan. Otherwise, why the very public confrontation between their general and Meade? And now this meeting of the four division commanders?
“The old man is ready for Bedlam,” Wilcox whispered, coming out of the bunker. Potter looked back nervously, fearful that the injudicious words might have been overheard.
“Well, at least we didn’t draw the short straw.”
Wilcox looked over at Ledlie, who stood wooden, like a statue, features pale, as if he had just been given a death sentence, which in all probability was exactly the case.
“Better him than you or me,” Potter replied. “Damn fool hasn’t been through what we have. Why Old Whiskers even gave him a division is beyond me.”
Ledlie had hardly seen any action since the war began. Most of his time had been spent commanding remote garrisons; his one prior nomination to high command was never confirmed by the Senate, which meant either someone knew him to be incompetent, or he did not have the right connections, or he had not bribed enough to see it through.
It was indeed a mystery why Burnside had taken him in and then given him a division during this campaign.
“We were simply told to follow the colored boys in once it began,” Bob Potter said. “Now what the hell do we do?”
“We follow James Ledlie in.”
Orlando Wilcox walked away, called for his horse, mounted, and rode off.
Ferrero just stood gazing off, looking toward the distant Rebel fort, which had been the center of so many nightmares throughout the last month.
So fate had intervened and had answered his prayers. The recurring dream that, when it was finished, his body would be found surrounded by his darkies and shoveled into an unmarked grave would not come to pass. He had seen far too many mass graves in this war. When he volunteered to take command of the Fourth, he had assumed, as did nearly everyone else, that they might draw some light picket duty along the line but would never be trusted in a combat role, let alone be given the nightmare assignment of leading an attack that was little better than a forlorn hope.
He would live out tomorrow.
He saw his two brigade commanders, Joshua Sigfried and Henry Thomas, waiting expectantly. Nearly the entire brigade command and even some o
f the regimental commanders had come in, waiting to hear their fates.
The two approached him, and he offered almost a cheerful salute.
“It’s off for us,” he said quietly.
“What?” Thomas gasped. “What do you mean, ‘off’?”
“We don’t lead the assault and have been placed in reserve.” He almost added, “Thank God.”
“Damn all of them to hell,” Thomas cried, and took off his hat and threw it to the ground.
Ferrero startled, gazed at him, as did others.
“What are you saying, Thomas?” Ferrero retorted. “We knew it was suicide, and I say thank God someone else is going in first rather than us.”
“Damn it, sir! My men are ready. As ready as any men would ever be, and ready to die to the last man to see it through. Just who in the hell ordered this?”
“You are talking about General Meade, sir,” Ferrero said coldly.
“Then I say that General Meade is a damn fool and should burn in hell for this. We could have ended this damn war tomorrow without his meddling.”
“Sir,” Ferrero snarled, “you will watch what you say or by God I will relieve you of your command, here and now.”
He looked around, as if to make sure others had heard the threat, in case word of this confrontation was carried back.
“We can do it. Sir, we can do it,” Siegfried added in, but at least his voice was pitched lower. “Go to Meade. Go to Grant. They can change it back.”
“It’s been changed and that is final,” Ferrero announced. “Our men are to assume the reserve position. We will be committed if and when the breakthrough occurs. And those orders are final.”
The two stood before him, both obviously filled with rage.
“Go tell your men.”
Thomas shook his head.
“I’ll wait until they are awakened tonight at eleven,” he said coldly. “They are ready, more than ready. At least I’ll let them have a few more hours of believing in what they are to do. Even now, they are supposed to be bedding down to get some sleep. If I tell them this news now they will be in an uproar and then exhausted tomorrow. Telling them now or later won’t change a damn thing other than when we break their morale.”
“Your decision, then.”
“Thank you for at least allowing me that,” Thomas retorted sarcastically, turned, and stormed off, Siegfried falling in by his side.
“General Ferrero?”
He turned. It was Ledlie, face pale, coming up to his side.
“What is it?”
“You trained for this. Now, exactly what in hell am I supposed to do?”
“Go back and ask Burnside, not me.”
“You saw the Old Man. He’s broken. I doubt if I could get a coherent command out of him at this point.”
General Edward Ferrero raised his hand and pointed at Fort Pegram, 1,200 yards away.
“You see that fort,” he snapped.
Ledlie stared and simply nodded.
He reached into his vest pocket, pulled out his watch, and snapped it open.
“In just about twelve hours from now, that will be blown to hell. If indeed the mine blows at all.”
And then he spoke words he would regret the rest of his life.
“Your job is to take it.”
He turned from that trembling man and just walked away.
11 P.M.
“You are joking,” James whispered, incredulous at what he had just been told.
Colonel Russell stood before him, illuminated by a single lantern hanging from his tent pole, the only tent set up for the entire encampment, the rest having been struck during the day and sent back to be placed in depot.
“I wish to God I was,” Russell replied somberly.
James could not find a reply. He felt a tightness in his chest. In one sense, what Russell had just told him was a blessed relief. These men, including this colonel with whom he had become so close over the last few days, would be spared now. The plan was a good one, but he had long ago learned not to put his trust in plans.
Never had he seen men so eager to trust in a plan, even if that eagerness was born out of naïveté. Still, at times belief was the key component to victory, even if the price demanded was a supreme sacrifice. History was replete with such examples, from Caesar, to Joan of Arc, to Henry at Agincourt, and to Washington at Trenton. Men such as Garland, Sergeant Felton, and the young drummer boy writing a thank-you and farewell letter to a beloved teacher, believed they would succeed. They actually seemed eager to make that sacrifice if, by so doing, what they believed in would come to pass. It was about far more than just preserving the Union; it was about Freedom itself, and they were ready to die for it. They might not themselves taste the full sweetness of that precious commodity, a celestial gift as Thomas Paine had described it, but they were ready to die so that others would.
It was such belief that won battles, even wars—that won victory for causes that could change the world.
He had resolved to go in with them. That was completely at adds with the rules he was operating under. An artist for Harper’s could sit back with the generals to sketch a battle. Most did, though a few like Ward and he had more than once ventured into the front lines to capture in their minds an image that would later be converted into print. It was these vivid, realistic images that distinguished them from the others covering this war.
James had decided to go in with them for more than that. It was a responsibility he bore beyond his apparent task. He wanted to be able to report directly to Lincoln exactly what he had seen with his own eyes as to how these men could fight, whether they were willing to die, and whether perhaps the actual fate, the weight of responsibility for the survival of the Union, rested in the hands of black soldiers. Whether, in fact, these men were willing to carry that burden, wanted to carry it to prove to the world, and to themselves as well, that they were worthy of it.
“I have to tell my men,” Russell sighed, and stepped away from Reilly.
Minutes before the sergeants had moved among the regiment, almost gently, telling them to wake up, repeating the litany a dozen or more times during the day, while they bedded down under the open sky, their camp gear having been taken down and sent into depot.
“Sergeants, check the weapons of every man, rifles empty, no percussion cap in place. Eighty rounds of ammunition and one hundred percussion caps per man. Do not touch canteens, which are to be filled, straps tucked under your belt. No talking, men, no talking. Silence in the ranks from now on. Form up on your company.”
In the darkness, illuminated only by starlight and the single lantern hanging from Russell’s tent, James could see 250 ghostlike apparitions fall into formation with practiced ease, not a word said, not a whispered command required.
Russell waited until all were in place.
“Men of the 28th, know that I am proud of you. No, more than that, I am honored to be able to lead such men as you into battle.”
No one replied. They had been cautioned before dark that there were to be no spontaneous demonstrations, no cheering, and commands to be given at a whisper.
He took a deep breath.
“The order of battle has been changed. We are not to lead the charge and have been placed in reserve.”
There was utter silence for several seconds, and then a low murmuring began, men turning to each other as if not believing what they heard. Surely they had misheard and would hear the needed assurance of a comrade by their side that the plan was still the same.
“Silence in the ranks,” Russell said, voice pitched low.
James stood behind him, and in the pale illumination of starlight he could see other blocks of men receiving the exact same information, murmuring arising from them as well, even a shout of protest, which was instantly hushed down.
Though 1,200 or more yards from the Rebel line, voices could carry far on a still night.
“We will take up the position to have been occupied by the Second Division
under Potter. Assume the formation you would have taken if in the front ranks of the attack.”
He paused.
“Company commanders, prepare to guide your men. That is all,” and he half lowered his head. “I will see all of you in Petersburg tomorrow.”
He turned away and James thought he could actually hear a choke in Russell’s voice.
No one moved for five minutes, then ten; officers whispered for the men to stand at ease while they waited for a guide who was supposed to come from corps headquarters to lead them to their newly assigned position. But no one came.
Ten minutes turned to a half hour and, regardless of hissed commands, the angry murmuring in the ranks began to rise.
“James?”
He saw Garland coming out of the shadows. James extended his hand, which Garland took.
“Why?”
“Why ask me?” James whispered.
“Because the colonel would not say a word to me. He just said those were the orders and that was it. So I am asking you. Why?”
“I know as much as you do, Sergeant,” James finally replied, realizing he was lying. Of course he knew. It was politics, and rivalries, and jealousies—the continuing bane of the Army of the Potomac. Something had happened further up the chain of command. But he could not say that now. Not to this man, who, though in reserve, would be committed to the battle at some point.
“I will try and find out, though,” James whispered.
Garland merely nodded.
“I promised to go in with you men,” James finally said, and he felt shamed by what he would say next.
“But?”
“I think I should stay behind for this one, and I pray you understand.”
“Why?” and he caught a note of cynicism in Garland’s query that was so sharp that James reached out and put his hand on Garland’s shoulder.
“Please listen to me. I want to go forward with you and if all had stuck to the plan I would have. Something has gone dreadfully wrong here. I think my duty now is to stay near headquarters, and perhaps by the end of the day I can tell you why.”
And he did not add that he could tell his President what happened as well.
The Battle of the Crater: A Novel Page 22